


It Never Stopped

by anderscones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:36:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, this could stand alone as a ficlet, or I could post the rest of this (or at least what I have done). Tell me what you think, yeah?</p>
    </blockquote>





	It Never Stopped

**Author's Note:**

> So, this could stand alone as a ficlet, or I could post the rest of this (or at least what I have done). Tell me what you think, yeah?

It never stopped. The dream (or nightmare, rather) was always replaying. It was as if someone had their finger glued to the repeat button. I constantly woke in the night; as soon as I fell asleep after waking from the nightmare, the next dream would be exactly the same. It never stopped. That made me afraid to drift into unconsciousness, afraid to sleep my life away, though that was all I wanted. I was haunted on both sides of the line that separated reality from fantasy; I couldn’t find peace from the everlasting reminder that my best friend killed himself. He made me watch as he murdered himself.

I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn’t. Anger is an important part of any healing process, and I wasn’t allowed to feel it. Something inside of me clung to every memory that made him seem like a saint or a god, and being upset with him in any way seemed wrong, especially when I felt so guilty. Sure, a lot of people feel like that when someone commits suicide, but it was different with me. I could truly say that I felt I pushed him to take his own life. I was his best friend, and at a time he needed my support the most, I snapped at him. I made sure I hit a nerve with my words, not even thinking about the stress he was under, not realizing that that moment was the last I had in his presence.

Regret is a nasty thing. It makes you doubt yourself. Not just for a moment on one subject, but genuinely makes you reconsider every decision you have ever made. It makes you to hate yourself for standing up in your highest principles. It makes you tear every fiber of your being into the bloodiest, guiltiest shreds. Regret pushes you into the realization that if you done just _one_ thing differently, the outcome could be very, very different. And that rips the hell out of a person. At least, it did for me. I hated myself for every day I got to live, as it was a day that Sherlock Holmes spent being dead.

 ***

“SHERLOCK.”

I could feel my body give under the pressure of seeing his limbs struggle against the rush of air. I felt every emotion that the human body was capable of and was numb all at once. It was only a second before his body collided with the cement. As soon as he made contact, the nightmare was over and my eyes shot open. I could feel the tears forming in my as I stared blankly and emotionlessly into the darkness. I wasn’t sure which way I was facing and the confusion upset me further. Not being able to handle the flood of emotion that soon came, I tried sitting up, realizing that I was actually turned on my side. The dizziness took control of my muscles and I fell back into the mattress. I felt hopeless and eventually cried myself into exhaustion, relieved that my mind slowed itself. Random thoughts flew into my head, and I didn’t attempt to collect them. I fell asleep eventually and woke up the next morning very tired and very depressed. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

_“One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”_

How right Sally Donovan was.


End file.
